The workday was shortened by an hour. At three, I picked up my wife and rushed home to get ready for the holiday.
I quickly changed clothes in the apartment and was standing in the kitchen by the table, apron in hand. Anticipating the celebration, I waited for instructions. My wife walked in and, looking me in the eyes, asked, “Where’s Barsik?”
Barsik is a Persian cat with pure white fur—my wife’s first love. The kids are second. I’m third. My heart ached in my chest.
“I don’t know,” I replied uncertainly. Just to be sure, I walked through the rooms. No sign of the cat.
I met my wife’s gaze again. “You were the last to leave this morning?”
“Yes,” I answered, still uncertain.
“Get dressed. Let’s go look for him.”
I tried to reason with her—it was nearly time for the holiday, we wouldn’t manage to get everything ready. To hell with the cat, he wouldn’t go far, he’d get hungry and come home. I shouldn’t have said that last part. My wife flinched, tears burst from her eyes. I rushed to the stairwell.
I searched all 16 floors and, drenched in sweat like I’d come out of a sauna, I burst onto the street. My wife was standing by the entrance.
“Did you find him?”—her voice full of hope.
I stayed silent and started circling our 16-entrance apartment building. With fresh snowdrifts all around, finding my wife’s beloved cat seemed hopeless.
We returned home just as the clock was striking midnight. We hadn’t found the cat. My wife was in a daze, and I was at my breaking point. As the chimes rang in the New Year, the table held champagne and a couple of plates of salad. I barely waited for the final chime and yanked the cork with frustration.
With the spray of champagne, Barsik flew out from under the Christmas tree, his eyes wild, white tufts of cotton stuck to his paws—the very cotton I had generously laid down the day before to cover the tree stand.
The rascal had been sleeping peacefully in his fluffy bed the whole time while we scoured the neighborhood searching for him.
